


Accidently in Lust

by cherry3point14



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (ACTUAL TAGS), And I'll tell you how you became the bunker mama, Dead Parent, Dean is a horn dog, Dirty Talk, F/M, I wrote you a rap that didn't rhyme what more do you want from me, I'd like to take a minute just sit right there, In somewhere west of Kansas, Life is hard, Ok so this is the story, Smut adjacent, all about how your life got twist turned upside down, chilling with your laptop and a normal life, everyones parents are dead, mentions of werewolves, not thinking about monsters cause that aint cool, nsfw-ish, she said you're moving to the bunker till dem wolves are snared, started a fire in your neighbourhood, unresolved plot like a fucking boss, when a couple of werewolves they were up to no good, working hard and writing stuff is how you spent your days, yes this title is a play on the song accidently in love from the shrek 2 soundtrack, you got in one little house fire and your cousin got scared, you lived your life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 04:06:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15788637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherry3point14/pseuds/cherry3point14
Summary: Written from the below prompt (by the brilliant @divadinag on Tumblr):You are a cousin of Eileen, and need a place to stay (house burned down? Have to go into hiding?) Your parents were hunters, and while you didn’t follow suit, you know the life. So who does Eileen call for help? The Winchester’s, of course! Sam offers you to stay at the bunker, and Dean reluctantly agrees. You find Sam a joy, but his cranky, melodramatic brother drives you crazy with all his grumping about “someone in the way…”





	Accidently in Lust

You open your eyes slowly, barely, being woken in the middle of the night. There’s an alarm somewhere that beeps incessantly, the noise thankfully waking you, along with the sound of coughing that you quickly realize is your own. Your eyelids cling like sleep is gluing them together. Except there’s not, you rub at them half consciously and they still don’t want to open. Something stings them into submission making you squint and see the dark world around you between the smallest crack.

Smoke?

You sit bolt upright despite still having a foot inside your dreams and adjust your vision as much as you can, as quickly as you can. Something is glowing yellow and orange outside of your bedroom door and smoke billows into the room in rolling grey clouds. Even in the middle of the night, you can see the way it rushes to the ceiling leaving black stains on your once pristine walls.

Something in your head finally catches up and adds all of these clues together. Of course, by that point, your coughing had intensified. The smoke determined on stealing the oxygen from your lungs and replacing it with acrid stinging. Random fire safety tips come back to you, ingrained in your head at a young age. You need to move, or you’ll pass out, the smoke will make you sleepy and sleeping will make you dead. You’re sitting too high up, so you sink to the floor, opposite to the direction of your door, giving you precious seconds to think. There’s a little more oxygen down here which your brain is as thankful for as your chest.

The window. You need to get to the window.

The frame is hot when you get there making it seems like the bones of your house are the source of the heat and not the fire itself. Luckily you can see the bright red of a fire truck pull up precariously on your front lawn, but they’re barely boots to the floor as you feel yourself sink to your knees again. Just a hand raised above you banging on the glass even though you know it’s not enough for them to see you and it’ll never be enough for them to hear you.

From your vantage point on the floor, you start looking for something hard, something you’ll be able to smash the glass with but while your hands blindly navigate your room the ratio of smoke to air continues to increase. Your lungs feel weighed down and this is the moment your mind decides it’s awake enough to acknowledge the thick drumming of a headache.  

You don’t want to, you fight as long as you can, trying to grip a forgotten boot in your hand when you feel the worn leather against your skin. Hoping it will invigorate you enough to rise up and break the window but just as soon as you’ve touched it then your fingers then start to go slack and your eyes, that you’d struggled to keep open in the first place, start to close with finality.

* * *

You open your eyes in a hospital bed grateful to be awake. Every second of being in your room, close to being burned alive, is carved so deeply into your memories that you almost expect to be surrounded by grey wisps and orange glows even now.

The ceiling above you is harshly clinical as if it could never be blackened by smoke stains, it’s soothing to your soul. Your body is stiff from immobility and your arms each have their own devices attached, one home to an IV and the other has a heart rate monitor. The mask over your face pinches at your skin as a hint of a smile plays on your lips when everything connects together in your brain, you were alive.

Apparently rousing from sleep had caused enough movement to let your visitor know you’re awake. Just like that, your vision is filled with Eileen as she leans over you and her face splits into a bright smile.

Through the plastic covering your mouth, you question the obvious, “Eileen?” Either she can still read your lips through the mask or she gets the idea. She nods and answers with an even brighter, “hey you.” Seemingly you’re not the only one pleased that you’re alive.  

She backs off enough to allow you to sit up and she’s patient as it takes you a while, but she doesn’t return to the chair. She’s sitting on one crossed leg at the edge of the bed like when you were kids. The Saturday afternoons she’d help you correct your fingers while you learned to sign or correct your maths while you learned trig.

Your limbs protest any sort of movement but lying down while awake is uncomfortable, it makes the hair stick to the back of your neck, so you tell your muscles to get over it. You move your hand to pull the mask down and regret the decision instantly. Although your face is thankful to take it away your lungs and windpipe are not. You’re not sure what they were pumping into you but sucking in that first lungful of air from outside of a tank sets everything alight. You can feel the scorch that paints your throat and extends down into your chest. It hurts enough that you wince, consider putting the mask back on and have a too vivid flashback to your house fire all at the same time. You’re resilient though and stubborn, refusing to go back to reliance on the mask if you can help it. Instead, you huff out that painful air and hiss your way into a shallow but consistent breathing pattern. Smaller bursts of pain preferable over deep, fiery breaths.

Eileen has always been observant so it’s not a surprise to meet those concerned eyes when you look up. The smile has fallen into a sad frown as she watches. You force your lips to curl upwards, a hand at your chest to with a familiar sign and, “I’m fine, really.”

She laughs at you, it’s soft and light, and you remember why you always love hearing her laugh so much because she never holds back, “you were in a fire, you don’t have to be fine.”

“Ok, everything hurts. You happy now?” You try to joke but she can spot the grain of truth behind it just from the way your lips clench tightly.

She takes a deep breath and you’re jealous. Although you’re more concerned that there’s something she’s not telling you, something she feels like she needs to say and she doesn’t want to. You know her well enough to read her. Eileen doesn’t often play coy or hold many things back, another thing you loved about your only cousin, but at this moment, she’s pretending she doesn’t know the words. It’s a strange sight to behold.

You touch her hand, pulling her focus back to your face so you know she understands when you press her, “what is it? Spill.”

Her face aches with whatever her secret is, but she can’t change who she is. Eileen is not someone who avoids the truth even if she doesn’t like it, “it was _them_.”

She doesn’t need to say more for you to know what danger she’s talking about, the tone is enough. The pack your parents were hunting before they became the hunted. It had been years and you’d figured since you didn’t hunt yourself, that you were safe. Out of sight and out of mind. But apparently not, they’d found you.

Your hands move slowly, conveying the worried tone of your voice in the deliberate speed of your fingers, “what am I going to do?”

You know it’s a lot to ask but Eileen knows things. She lives the life your parents had, the one you’d grown up in but rejected the first chance you got. And you’ll do anything she tells you to because there’s no one you trust more in the world. If she tells you to move to Alaska because werewolves don’t like cold, then you’ll do it, no questions asked. You just want to be safe again instead of almost being killed for your dead parent's short-sighted vendetta.

She looks at you with a mingled expression of sympathy and worry, the same kind you remember her wearing at your parent’s funeral, “I’m going to take care of it.”

Your brow furrows, hands fast and voice concerned now, “no. I can’t ask you to do that. Don’t get dragged into this. Just tell me where to go.”

The last thing you want is your last living family member getting involved. Sure, she hunts regularly but this pack is brutal, and Eileen is the closest thing you ever had to a sister, even if you only see her every few months.

She has that smile though. The one that you know means she’s ignoring you, or she has something up her sleeve. And you might physically feel like seven shades of shit but seeing the way her eyebrows raise playfully still elicits the same reaction it always has from you. You roll your eyes like she’s a bad influence and this is all a prank.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got some friends I think can help.”

* * *

Someone from the fire brigade had shown up to tell you they didn’t suspect foul play, which was laughable, and you’d had to go through the minutia required to give to your insurance company all the while wondering how he still had his job. Structural damage they said. Brought your home to the ground. The only things you had left were a few surviving boxes from the basement that magically survived, your car and the clothes on your back, currently being a hospital gown.

Then Eileen shows up like the angel she is and tells you she’s arranged somewhere for you to stay. You ask question after question but she’s cagey about details, apparently, you can’t even have your mail forwarded there. So obviously, you’re already imagining some creepy shack off the beaten track where you’ll be living with two hippies and a drug dealer.

This was your sweet, lovely Eileen though. Part of you knew she wouldn’t do that and a much more suspicious part of you was wondering why she was being so secretive. You couldn’t not get your mail since you were trying to repair and replace your entire life. You reluctantly agree to her terms and ask to know the town you’ll be staying in at least, so you can get a PO box.

Lebanon, Kansas.

Ever thinking ahead she’s brought you her old laptop to tide you over until your insurance money comes through and you spend the hours before you get discharged researching Lebanon or trying to figure out where she could be taking you. There are a few motels but there are motels in every town so why would she be taking you a state over to hide you in a Super 8? If anything, you’re a little surprised she’s not taking you further away from the problem. Your only reassuring discovery about your new mystery abode is that Lebanon, on google earth anyway, doesn’t seem to have a shanty town built of corrugated metal sheets so, there’s that.

She brings you jeans and a flannel to wear when she comes back to pick you up and you find yourself trying to resist wrinkling your nose at the thick material, but ultimately failing.

She laughs and tells you, “you’ll fit right in.”

“Into what? A Canadian lumberjack convention?”

Her laugh gets bigger like it’s coming from the deepest recesses and you feel like you’re missing a joke when she assures you, “something like that.”

Before you set off she takes you to pick up your car, which you’re very excited to see again, except in doing so you see the remnants of your home. It horrifies you how much of it has burnt away and you wonder how bad it got while you were still inside. The parts of it still standing don’t look stable enough to survive a breeze and everything is rotted by fire. As you’re getting into your car and preparing to follow Eileen to Kansas you see it. In the stone foundation, the only thing to truly survive is what clearly looks like a deeply carved, large claw mark. You shiver at the sight of it, unexpectedly glad to be driving away from the town you’ve called home for all these years.

* * *

Lebanon reminds you of so many other slices of small-town Americana. Main street has a tiny post office that you can just tell the same guy has been working in for twenty plus years. City hall is what you can only describe as ‘cute’ for the size of it and there are pickup trucks as far as the eye can see. You have a sneaking suspicion that if Lebanon didn’t have the claim to the geographical center of the 48 states then it may have fallen off of the map a long time ago.

She doesn’t stop at any of the quaint houses with their expansive front yards. She keeps driving. All the way through to the other side of town until you’re sure you’re about to leave Lebanon again.

Suddenly she has a turn signal on and she’s pulling over besides, what initially, looks like an abandoned building. You pull in behind her and jump out not bothering to mask your confusion and horror. If you were shooting a movie about a long shut down mental hospital then this might be your perfect filming location but as a hideout you’re concerned. You’re half expecting this to be her way of tricking you into a hunt.

She calls you over and when you get to her you see the secure door and downward steps that her car had been hiding from your line of sight. She wants you to stay in some underground lair? Were you going to be staying with a bond villain? This definitely felt like where a bond villain might live had they made their home in Kansas.

You reach out for her shoulder stopping her before she takes the stairs down, “where are we?”

There’s that smile again, knowing and full of secrets, “they call it the bunker. Just come on you’ll see.”

The bunker? This is some wartime crap.

You know deep down that Eileen isn’t going to have brought you somewhere to die unless she is possessed, which honestly you hadn’t checked for and should you have checked for that? It’s been years since you thought about those kinds of precautions, could the pack have recruited monsters other than werewolves?

She bangs on the door and the sound seems to travel forever indicating the depth inside. It’s a few torturous minutes before it’s pulled open to reveal an exceedingly tall guy with long hair falling in his face. Well, falling in his face until he spots your cousin and sweeps it back with one hand, partnering the motion with a grin that lights up his features. His eyes crinkle absurdly looking at Eileen and now you understand why you’re here.

He signs, “hey, you made it. I was starting to think you wouldn’t get here before dark.”

It’s the first time you look at her since the door has opened and you can see this unabashed adoration radiating off of her, especially as the guy's hands move through the words.

At least that explains it, why she called upon this particular _friend_ to help out. It calms your nerves a little bit. She never had a taste for bad guys, he must be on the level at least.

They both smile at each other for longer than is really necessary and it takes you clearing your throat for Eileen to remember why she’s here. “Yeah, the drive was fine. Sam this is my cousin Y/N. Y/N, this is Sam Winchester.”

You offer your hand to Sam as if you hadn’t witnessed whatever mating ritual just happened, “hi Sam. Nice to meet you and thanks for having me I guess. Although I’m not quite sure where here is.”

He smiles back at you, not in the love-struck way he just stared at your cousin thankfully. “Hi Y/N. You’re totally welcome when Eileen told us about the fire and… well, we wanted to help.”

He moves to let you both in and you pick up on something he said, “we?”

The bunker door closes with a sense of finality that makes your heart skip a beat. “My brother, Dean. He’s around here somewhere. He’s um- happy to have a house guest.”

You can tell from his tone that if you turned around Sam would be avoiding your eye contact.

“I promise you guys won’t even notice me if I can help it. I’ll help out and stuff.”

At the bottom of the stairs Sam’s hand falls to your shoulder supportively, “seriously, it’s fine. In fact, I’m gonna go grab him. Give me a second.”

And away he goes. Off in the direction of somewhere leaving you to marvel at the room you are currently standing in. It’s stunning. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say you’ve stepped into a time warp but a beautiful one at that. You could appreciate the exposed brick, the high ceilings and the walls of books you could see. From here it looked like an entire library. You only shut your mouth and stop staring around like a kid in a candy store when Eileen calls you, “Y/N?”

She’s taken a seat at an illuminated map table and you plonk yourself down opposite her, taking the moment alone to tease, “so Sam huh?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.” Her eyes dart to the direction he’d gone, just in case.

“Sure, sure. You’re not both in love or anything.” You wiggle your head mischievously to get your point across.  

She answers you with a glare, so you continue, “think how tall your children will be!”

This time she cracks despite her better judgment, cheeks blushing, but it turns into a flushed warning when the shuffling of feet signals Sam’s imminent return.

“This is ridiculous Sammy. We’re just taking in strays now?” An unfamiliar voice grumbles at a volume obviously intended to be heard.

Sam spits something out under his breath, since he clearly has a little class, before he pulls his brother into view with too wide eyes, “Dean this is Y/N who will be staying with us while we help Eileen with the werewolves. Y/N this is my brother Dean.”

You jump up out of your seat and hold a hand out to him like you had for Sam except your face is already pulled tight in a thin, false smile, “nice to meet you, Dean. Don’t worry I’m fully house trained.”

This only serves to make him sulk and roll his eyes when he submits to shaking your hand.

It becomes something competitive, shaking Dean’s hand. Both of you thickly shrugging your arms like you’re trying to shake the other off and yet neither of you daring to let go. It carries on in silence until he squeezes a little too tightly and you pull back with pursed lips and a deep frown. You didn’t know much about Dean Winchester, but you didn’t need much to know he’s an ass.

Sam pushes his hair back again, but this time it’s accompanied by an awkward, “well…”

Dean cuts him off with a clipped question, “what’s the deal with these werewolves?”

* * *

Eileen mostly takes the lead on explaining the pack since the last time you encountered them was almost ten years ago. Even then you hadn’t really come into contact with them, you’d just been aware of their existence. Plus, it seems like she spent the time while you were in hospital getting shit done. Shit being research.

The information makes you feel a whole lot worse about this situation as you sit and listen to what they’re suspected of being responsible for. Suspected because they’re smart, in the way they move around the country to avoid hunters and never leave enough evidence to be caught.

Hunters have managed to take out one or two of them every so often, but the backbone of the pack remains. In fact, their intelligence and savvy begs the question. Why the hell are they after you?

They seem too organized to want some childish revenge for what your parents did, especially since ultimately, they killed your mom and dad themselves. And anyone worth their salt could see you’re not a hunter. You’re not a threat.

So, why go to the effort of burning down your house?

It didn’t make sense and it didn’t exactly fill you with hope for the future. A future where maybe you’d get to own a house and things and be normal again.

“Quit daydreaming short stack.”

Dean’s hand knocks on the table in front of you pulling you out of your head. You scowl at him because it seems like the correct reaction.

“Sorry, what?” you direct your inquiry to Eileen and Sam ignoring him completely.

Sam snaps his eyes from a brief look at Eileen and you almost feel bad for putting them in the middle. Almost. “I was just saying that we should try and track their next supposed whereabouts before we go after them. They’re too smart to stick around your hometown waiting for you. They’ll know you’ve moved”

Dean makes a gruff sounding affirmation and then cocks his eyebrow in your direction, “assume you’ll be coming so you can get in the way sweetheart?”

“Firstly, pick a nickname and stick to it cowboy. Secondly, hell no. I said I was raised by hunters, but I never wanted to be one. I’ll leave this to the pros.” You motion with a hand the three people sitting at the table excluding yourself. Annoyance makes way to a wave of guilt that eats at your insides as your own words rattle around the inside of your head. The brave face you’ve been putting on since leaving the hospital slips for a moment. “I mean, I won’t be able to help. I’m so sorry I’ve got you all involved in this.”

Your voice is small. Eileen knows you well enough to know how you’re feeling just from the way your eyes cast downwards and she’s out of her seat in a second. She wraps her arms around you and you hold on for dear life. Not quite caring that you’re having a break down in front of two strangers you met an hour ago. The last thing you wanted was to be involved in this life again but now that you don’t have a choice you realize the absolute last thing you want is for her to get hurt. You have friends but she’s the last of your family. A thought that makes you hold her a little tighter.

When you eventually let her go you nod like it’s all that needs to be said but also throw a questioning glance in Sam and Dean’s direction.

“Don’t worry about them either. They’re the Winchesters.” She tries to be reassuring but there’s a slight joke to her tone.

You frown and ask genuinely, “is that supposed to mean something?”

It’s Dean who sounds affronted by this, “unbelievable. She doesn’t even know who we are. I thought she knew the life?”

The glint in Eileen’s eyes tells you she planned to annoy Dean with that one.

* * *

Eileen and Sam help you with your four pathetic boxes and set you up in a room that looks military in its uniformity. You didn’t know much about the bunker, having spent the majority of your time discussing the pack, but the room made you wonder if the bunker was indeed military. Or ex-military based on the fact that it was stuffed with hunting weapons and the occasional beer bottle dotted about the place.

Eileen also has some more clothes for you from somewhere. Another thanks, she’s probably getting sick of seeing your hands make the sign, and she tells you she’s staying in the room opposite you.

You don’t know why you’re surprised she’s staying here but you’re grateful that you won’t be left alone.

Going through your boxes puts you somewhere between nostalgia and sadness. One box was filled with papers you’d never need, report cards from school, some essays from college, a utility bill from four years ago. The usefulness of the documents decreased the further you dug until you hit glossy, thick paper and pulled out a bunch of photographs. There weren’t many, maybe forty or fifty tops, but they were your entire life. A few of you as a toddler, tufty hair pulled into a ponytail on top of your head, making you look like a pineapple waddling around. There was the obligatory first day of school picture, gap teeth and holding a lunchbox with a pink dinosaur on it. A picture of you winning a spelling bee. One of you and your mom in the kitchen making dinner, another of you on your dad’s shoulders at a theme park. The little pile of memories made your chest ache. In your teenage years, and again when they’d died, you’d harbored resentment towards your parents. For raising you in a world where everything scary was real and for the things they’d trained you to do. But looking at these pictures all you saw were two people who loved you and, despite the jobs they did, gave you as normal a childhood as they could.

Another box was filled with old clothes. You’d have been thankful for this except they were clothes from your college years that never made it to goodwill. Sorority t-shirts, shorts you haven’t worn in years because you don’t have the flat butt of a nineteen-year-old anymore, a stolen football jersey from your ill-advised jock romance freshmen year and a collection of Halloween costumes that were mainly hot girl animals.

The remaining two boxes are disappointingly full of crap. They’re like that drawer every home has in the kitchen full of single, different size batteries and takeout menus, except you have two boxes full of random nonsense. Why past you had elected to keep this junk you’ll never know. There are at least four corkscrews and some nails that are all bent and unusable. These boxes seemed to be an indication of the hot mess you could sometimes be.  

You stack all the boxes in a corner deciding there’s nothing worth unpacking. You had no idea how long you’d be staying here and while it was nice to have your remaining worldly possessions there wasn’t anything exactly useful in there. The only thing that stays out are a few of the pictures, there’s three of you and Eileen at different ages and you hope she’ll get as much a kick out of them as you do.

There’s a knock at the door that you think will be her, so you shout, “come in,” without thinking much about the other two residents of the bunker.

When the presence behind you, looking over your shoulder, is much taller than you expect you spin around holding the photos to your chest.

Sam smiles apologetically for scaring you, “sorry, just came to tell you we’re going to go get some dinner if you’re interested.”

Your stomach growls appreciatively at the idea of real food over hospital pudding cups, “that sounds good.” He starts walking away again when you remember what’s in your hand. “Sam? Want to see the cutest thing ever?”

He stops by the door with a quizzical expression and a restrained grin, “that’s a bold claim.”

You wave the photos in your hand teasingly, “not really. My dear hunter cousin at seven years old is indeed the cutest.”

His eyes light up in recognition and he’s back by your side in a second.

“Prepare yourself, Sam, once you see these nothing else is going to be this adorable again.”

“Oh, I’m ready.”

* * *

It’s always a little awkward staying in someone else’s home, even if that home happens to be a weird hunter bunker. The first hurdle is always breakfast. Is this a shower and dressed household or will you look like a moron while they all sit there in PJ’s?

Luckily when you wake up after your first night in residence you’re too desperate for coffee to care. You’d slept in the football jersey since it was the only thing you had that seemed comfortable enough for sleep and you just about manage to slip on some sweats before stumbling the barely remembered route to the kitchen. You don’t meet anyone else on the way or when you get there so you start the search for coffee all on your own, like a grown up.

“Out of the way,” Dean’s voice is thick with sleep. He shoves you a little to get to the coffee and starts making a pot thus ending your attempts to be helpful. Upon inspection, he’s the dictionary definition of not a morning person. His eyes are barely open and everything about him is moving on autopilot. That’s not to mention the robe. You’d never have imagined Dean as a robe guy. You always thought robe guys were the ones who sat out the front of their house in a lawn chair, no job to go to during the day and a case of beer next to them. Then, thinking about it, you consider that last night you’d seen a cooler in the back of his car, as a hunter he didn’t always have a job to go to and now he’s wandering about in a robe. You just needed to find out where he stashed his lawn chairs it seems.

“Mugs are over there,” he orders while adding water to the machine.

It seems morning pre-coffee Dean is the same amount of an ass as normal Dean but with none of the snarky attempts at charm. Where before he’s been annoying, now he’s just unbearable. The feeling seems to be mutual with how frustrating he’s finding you.  

You grab four mugs and he rolls his eyes so far into the back of his head you wonder if they’re coming back, “Sam’s already out for a run.”

“And I’m supposed to know that how?” Maybe you’re cranky this morning too.

“Well, I just told ya doll.”

He’s a hunter, you remind youcrself. He’s trained in things you aren’t. Do not try and kill him because it will end badly for you.

Putting away one of the mugs you hop up on the counter, kicking your legs aimlessly while you wait for the machine to give you both what you desperately needed to function.

He looks like he wants to make a comment about you sitting there but he wisely keeps to himself, instead opting to sneer at your jersey, “Iowa?”

“Go Hawks.” You mumble with as much enthusiasm as you can muster this early and a half raised fist.

“You a fan or…?”

You shrug, “it’s where I went to school. You were a hawk’s fan or an outcast.”

Another sneer but you don’t care what for. The machine beeps and you jump down with a mug in your hands.

He snatches the pot from the machine and pours his, shuffling away before you can tell him exactly how much of an ass he is.

* * *

It’s been two days and you’ve never wanted to hear about a werewolf attack more.

Well, that’s not what you’re waiting for. There’s a specific pattern Sam thinks he’s figured out. Eileen whispered that he’s a pretty smart at one point, which from her means Sam’s a genius and he might know the meaning of life. They both seem to be enjoying sitting together whispering about things on their respective laptops.

The hospital had given you very specific instructions to rest for the first week or so and you can tell you need it. Standing up for too long makes you lose your breath and on more than one occasion you’d had to use your inhaler after having a shower. You didn’t have too much pride to let yourself recover, you just had too much pride to let anyone else treat you any differently while recovering.

So, every time Dean gets annoyed with you, grumbling about you taking up all the sofa or complaining that you’re taking too long in the bathroom, you narrow your eyes at him instead of explaining that you needed an extra minute.

Now it’s been two days of this and you’re ready for him to leave. Does it sound harsh trying to kick a man out of his own home to go and fight your battle with a bunch of werewolves? You didn’t care if it was harsh, Dean was a dick and you were sick of him.

Even Eileen and Sam were starting to wear on you if only because watching them dance around each other was exhausting. She looked at him like he hung the stars and he looked at her like she was the sun, yet neither of them was doing anything about it.

You tried to help. You brought up the cutest cousin stories you could think of when you’re all eating together. When you’d all had a few drinks and started talking about the past you’d casually mentioned how Eileen always had a thing for tall guys. They’d both blushed but still nothing. He hadn’t even mentioned the pictures you’d shown him. He just grinned like an idiot when you told him the stories behind them and then locked the information away for him to, apparently, never use.

You’d even willingly had a conversation with Dean and asked him how he could stand it. He’d said it’ll happen eventually and walked away grumbling. Helpful as ever.

Thankfully on day three Sam calls everyone to the library and excitedly explains that he has a lead out in Omaha.

Eileen beams with pride, “thanks great, Sam!”

Even Dean seems excited to be getting out, which may be the first time you’ve seen him excited about anything.

Nobody wants to think about or mention the fact that this is all a little too easy, too fast. You’re just hoping that this could all be over and they’re all itching for a good hunt.

They’re ready to go in an hour. Eileen is taking her own car separate to the boys. Only you see the crestfallen look on Sam’s face. Dean explains over and over again about the security of the place and not to open the door to anyone like you’re a child.

“I get it. Stranger danger. Be good and stay indoors. I don’t even know anyone in Kansas, not exactly going to be throwing a party as soon mom and dad leave.” You hike a thumb in the direction of the wannabe lovebirds having a brief goodbye before hitting the road. It’s not like they’re going to the same place or anything.

Dean’s face is still stern, disbelieving you, “just be careful, they came for you before. We don’t know if they know you’re here.”

It’s an oddly heartfelt sentiment that makes you cock your head at him wondering if he isn’t totally the arrogant dick you’ve come to know and be annoyed by.

“I promise. I’ll stay indoors. Won’t even answer if a girl scout brings me cookies. Although I’ll need to go to the store at some point.”

It’s clear from his glare that Dean doesn’t like it, but he nods, probably remembering that all there is in the kitchen is bread, beer, and half a day-old burger. “You know how to shoot a gun right?”

“I’m not taking a gun to the market.”

“You take a gun or you’re not going. Silver bullets. Don’t be an idiot.”

And then they’re gone without anybody actually saying goodbye. The rumble of the Impala and Eileen’s car fading into the distance. The sound of the bunker door when you go back inside only serves to illustrate the emptiness of the place.

You did ask for some peace and quiet.

* * *

Memories of smoke and fire licking at every wall of your home are what makes you listen to Dean. You visit the gun range and spend some time relearning your way around a firearm. You always had knives and baseball bats in your house, salt and iron. You might have chosen not to be a hunter but you’re not stupid, you knew what was out there. But it’s been years since you fired a weapon. A gun never seemed necessary in your town with how few things out of the ordinary occurred.

Maybe Dean has a point. Or maybe the way he said it was enough to scare you. Either way, you practice. Their arsenal is, unsurprisingly, well stocked. In a little time you’ve found a gun that fits in your hands without feeling bulky. Then it’s a little longer finding the right size silver ammunition.

By the time you’re done your body is drained and you elect to eat toast, because you have bread after all, before shuffling off to bed with plans to go out and about the next day.

Sleep isn’t easy that night. As impenetrable as the bunker appears it’s the first time you’ve been alone since the fire and you only realize that fact when you’re lying there fitful at 2 am. The silent darkness of the place is eerie. You notice the absence of other people in your bones. Ungratefully you’d be thankful for anyone right now.

You’d already had a text from Eileen letting you know they were there and had set up a base of operations in a typically crappy motel room. That was hours ago. You didn’t know if they were already out looking for the wolves or anything. In the time it takes to bring up your text history you’ve convinced yourself that’s why you can’t sleep. You’re worried about her. You fire off a message with no pretense.

**You’re not out hunting tonight right?**

It’s an aching few minutes before she replies.

**No. I was asleep. Why are you awake? Don’t answer that, I’m going back to sleep.**

You smile at the phone as it illuminates your face. Imagining her sleepy frown as she probably silenced her phone and rolled back over.

Talking to somebody for even a moment is enough that your body lets you get some shut-eye.

* * *

You’ve noticed yourself steadily getting better over the days they’ve been gone, you even email your boss and start taking assignments again, glad of having a job you can do remotely. Even with work there’s still not enough to keep you busy.

At one point you find yourself doing research, and enjoying it for a few hours too, that’s when you know you need a hobby or something.

It’s not the boredom that forces your hand though. It’s the laundry basket.

You didn’t have a lot of clothes. Pretty much just the ones Eileen had given you. You’d picked up a few extra non-flannel items when you’d gone grocery shopping, with a gun tucked in your jeans as per Deans request. Still, you didn’t have a lot. Maybe three or four pairs of jeans. Some t-shirts. So, with everyone gone you take advantage of the empty bunker. That meant washing everything all at once while you wandered around in your football jersey.

It wasn’t anything obscene, you’d dated a linebacker for crying out loud and the thing was long enough to wear as a dress. The point was you were in the laundry room washing your clothes when you smelt it.

If it hadn’t been established before, boys are officially disgusting.

You know they washed their clothes at some point. Neither of them smelled terrible or anything but clearly, there was a window allowed by one or both of them between clothes becoming dirty and clothes being washed. And here they were left to fester until laundry day finally came rolling around.

You’d asked the universe for a hobby and the universe had unfortunately provided. You had two boys stuck inside adult bodies to look after. They could consider it payment in lieu of rent.

You put on the first load which is all, god help you, flannel. There are actually too many flannels to fit in one go so you have a half load still to wash. Then you use the time waiting for the machine to start skulking through the bunker mentally listing other jobs to be done. The bathroom needs to be scrubbed. It’s clean but it needs a _deep_ clean. The kitchen needs to be reorganized too, there are canned goods that expired in the sixties. Not even getting started on the state of the dungeon.

The list becomes so detailed that you take a second trip to the store for more supplies, bleach obviously, food cupboard staples, something to dust with. You know, normal household things.

By the time you’re finished with the bathrooms, the tiles are a different color whereas you have taken on a pink hue from exertion. Not that you care about the sweat because when you shower before bed it will be in a bathroom with white tiles.

The kitchen gets a similar treatment and while nothing changes dramatically every surface shines under the lights of the room, clean enough to eat off of. You’re incredibly satisfied with your work so far but your breathlessness reminds you not to push yourself too soon.

You’ve forgotten the laundry now and only have time to move the flannels to the dryer before showering off the grime sticking to your skin. The process only adds to your exhaustion, the hot water on your skin makes you warm and comfortable adding to your readiness for sleep.

That night you don’t toss and turn. You close your eyes and find sleep easily.

* * *

Now that you’ve found the secret to contentment while living in the bunker it becomes increasingly difficult to stop. When Sam calls and tells you they’ll be home that evening the words sound like a challenge to your ears.

By the time the bunker door opens in the early evening you’ve got dinner in the oven, a pie ready to bake, you’ve washed and changed their sheets and they all have a pile of clean laundry folded on their beds. Including Eileen. You don’t want to pre-emptively use the term amazing, you’d let them come to that conclusion on their own, but you’ve discovered a hidden ability to look after people.

They all stumble in carrying heavy bags and stomping boots down the stairs as you come prancing out of the kitchen with a self-satisfied grin, “dinner is in twenty minutes.”

Eileen’s face is your favorite because she looks at you like you’ve sprouted two heads. Sam seems appreciative, then again, he doesn’t know how out of character this is for you. You’ve never been a nester, even in your own home it  was barely lived in. Dean, however, oh poor Dean, he looks like he’s chewing his mouth to bits to stop any semblance of excitement from showing on his face.

Eileen drops her bag with a thump, “Y/N are you feeling ok?”

“Actually, I’m feeling a lot better. Laundry in the basket please.” You turn to walk back into the kitchen when you remember your achievements from the day before. If possible, your grin is even wider as you look back over your shoulder, “just wait until you see the bathroom.”

That’s when Dean panics, “what have you done to my shower?!” With that, he’s off to inspect the damage.

Sam’s mouth becomes a serious line, “what _did_ you do to it?”

“HOLY FUCK!” comes echoing from the direction Dean left in.

“Cleaned it, Sam, I cleaned it.”

In twenty minutes they’re sitting obediently while you bring a lasagna to the table. This is the quietest they’ve all been since you got here and all it took was making a meal for them. Or they’re all still in their heads about the hunt.

When everyone has food in front of them you sit down next to Eileen, with a little less of your Stepford wife act, as you dare to ask, “who wants to tell me how it went?”

“Killedsomesonsofbitches,” Dean says with a mouthful of food.

His words, not the way he says them, lights a spark of hope in you that must play out on your features because Eileen puts her hand on your shoulder and shakes her head. “We think we took out a few low-level guys. We still didn’t find out why they’re after you.”

Your head slips down until your chin is against your chest. You play with the food in front of you without an appetite anymore. It was a fools dream to think that the first hunt, days after the fire, would be enough to get you your freedom but goddamn you had still hoped. You’d thought about what new city you might move to and how much online shopping you’d do to replace your wardrobe.

The air has soured, not that you intended it, but your dejection settles over the table like a hazy fog. While they all sit there suffering it you recognize how selfish you’re being. They still killed some of the pack, risked their lives, saved people. They may not have saved you this time, but you _were_ safe. You were the one, out of all the victims, getting to live in the magic bunker where your enemies couldn’t get you.

“I’m sorry, I appreciate you guys trying.”

Sam looks up from his plate, understanding, “we’re going to figure this out and in the meantime, the pack needs to be stopped.”

It’s still a win is what he’s telling you. Confirming your own thoughts really.

“What’s that smell?” Dean has cheese lodged in the corner of his mouth and he whips his head up completely oblivious to any other conversation that has happened.

You’re caught off guard for all of a second before you find the words, biting back being offended that he can’t tell by smell alone, “a pie. I figured by how you wolfed one down at the diner my first night you liked them?”

In your peripheral vision, you can tell Sam is highly amused by your questioning tone. Dean ignores him. “Apple?”

“Cherry. And I have ice cream.”

He turns to Eileen now and gives her a solemn nod. Somehow you feel like you just got a seal of approval you didn’t know you wanted.

* * *

At some point, since they got back bunker life has settled into a pattern of just life.

Sam gives you the all-clear despite not being a trained medical professional. You thank him even though you don’t really need it from him, you know you feel better.

Eileen spends evenings with you and you both talk about the mundane things you never have time to discuss on regular visits. For you, it’s the bureaucracy of your job, detailed reviews of your favorite TV shows and the last date you went on. She tells you about the hunts that don’t make the newspapers, some of the pits stops she’s made since you last saw her, and she avoids talking about Sam. In a very pointed and not at all obvious way.

Dean gives you whiplash. The guy who called you a stray when you first arrived now thanks you for dinner each night and gets up ten minutes before you, so the coffee is ready when you wake up. He’d probably never admit to the second one, but you’ve noticed the distinct lack of wait times for caffeine the last few mornings.

There are also the comments. It started small. You’d take his plate and he’d toss you a wink as he leaned back with his beer. Then the way he’d call you sweetheart changed. The word lost its tang, sharpness replaced with softness. The changes were so subtle at first that you didn’t even notice your own behavior change in kind. The level of contempt you held for him the first few days didn’t crumble into a heap, but it gently thawed like ice on a hot day. So slowly that you didn’t notice it happening, you’re just left scrambling to comprehend when you realize your relationship has already changed.

Your moment of comprehension is when he’s watching The Magnificent Seven and you’re working on your laptop. He wanders off to get a beer and brings you one without asking, which you accept with a mumbled, “thanks Deano.” You’re pretty sure the nickname is new except your mouth drags out the ‘o’ sound like a practiced art. He doesn’t react like it’s out of the ordinary either. Suddenly your fingers stop clacking at your keyboard while you wonder how long you’ve been calling him calling him Deano. Or any nickname that isn’t laced with malice. And for that matter how long have you and Dean been spending time sitting in the same room together, alone, without feeling the need to argue or complain about the other?

He doesn’t seem to notice the change, or at least not at the same time as you, not in this minute. Maybe he’d already noticed or maybe he’s just as oblivious as you’d been until now.

“What’s up, fun size?” He doesn’t take his eyes off the TV as he asks, he doesn’t need to for you to see the smirk.

You can feel the heat rise in your cheeks because he thinks he’s caught you staring. Actually, he’s caught you thinking with your eyes coincidently trained in his direction. You don’t think he’ll care about the distinction.

“Nothing. Just trying to think of a word.” You’re a good liar and he seems to buy it.

He believes it enough to test you at anyway, “word for what?”

You look back at the screen, at the paragraph you’d been writing, the sentence half finished. All of it might as well be hieroglyphics for how well you can read it now.

Instead of getting trapped in the lie your mouth seems to take over, spouting off words like a truth, “oh, erm. You know, attraction to something you shouldn’t be, there’s a word on the tip of my tongue…”

Where that sentence came from will haunt you till the end of days. You’re walking a fine line. Every second between you speaking and him turning his head ticks loudly in your ears.

“Temptation?” He offers. His cadence is completely innocent, his face is anything but.

You panic. Obviously. Dean is looking at you like a predator circling its prey and you’re wondering when the air in the room because so _thick_. It weighs down on your shoulders stopping you from moving away even if you wanted to.

“Yes!” You practically shout, your voice high and breaking, “that’s what I was trying to think of thanks.”

You look back at your screen and feign typing. Your fingers move over the keys but the letters being typed are a string of nonsense. He knows you’re faking and you know he knows, but for some reason he has mercy on you. You dare not look up again, but your entire body is astutely aware when he’s not watching you anymore. It’s like a source of heat leaving you. Your heartbeat returning to its normal thump when his eyes are back on his film as if nothing happened.

The lump in your throat only allows you to swallow it down after another minute as if it’s waiting to ensure the coast is clear. You pause, stretch your fingers, and delete the lines of keyboard smashing as if they never happened. You can’t erase what just happened between you and Dean though even if you aren’t entirely sure what to call it.

Glances at him now are brief so as not to arrouse any more suspicion. Finally, your mind settles on a title, not for the change between you two but a heading for the days to come. You creatively call it; was Dean Winchester always that fucking attractive?

* * *

Further to your previous claims about boys being disgusting you’d like to amend that to hunters. Hunters are animals.

Eileen was not as bad as Sam and Dean, but they did all have a somewhat similar mindset. You understood that when they were on the road saving lives and killing bad guys was probably more important than making sure they had enough clean socks. It’s just, none of them are on the road right now. If anything, they’re looking for cases to tie them over between wolf stuff.

Why then do empty the laundry basket only for an entire week’s worth of clothing to appear within the hour?

You were more than happy to continue looking after the mundane chores while they were here. You weren’t willing to be involved in the mess of hunting and this was how you could help. It eased the guilt of being a burden and stopped you from going stir crazy.

Still, that didn’t mean they could walk all over you like this.

You huff and sigh the entire time you go through their rooms. Having imaginary arguments under your breath in case one of them found you and complained that you hadn’t asked. You scripted your responses to anything they might say. Oh, they want some privacy? Maybe they should have thought about that before they decided to live like greasy faced teenagers. Not that any of them do catch you collecting their dirty clothes, it’s just better to be prepared with your defense.

You’re sorting through everything in the laundry room when you almost jump out of your skin. Someone has snuck up on you silently. Not a creak on the floor as warning.

It’s Dean. You know it’s Dean when two hands settle on your shoulders sending goosebumps crawling along your arms. Goosebumps he chases away as his hands travel over your skin, the slightest of friction heating you through.

“What’cha got there sweetheart?” He drawls, breath hot on your ear and voice resonating down your spine.

It wasn’t the first time he’d played with you like this, since the sofa incident, but it was the first time he’s started the game with no preamble.

Your try to cover the crack in your voice with sarcasm. You try at least. “What’s does it look like? Laundry.”

He leans over you a little letting his gaze fall to the clothes in your hands, still sorting of their own accord, and probably also giving him a fairly decent view down the front of your shirt. The movement pushes his chest, solid and firm, against your back. He’s careful to pull his head back without moving away from you keeping you resting against a hard wall of muscle.

“Well doll, if you wanted to get into my underwear, you could have just asked.”

He must be able to hear the gulp, the way your chest pounds, even the tense curl of your toes is deafening. Your body is loud enough to drown out a crowd let alone Dean when he’s close enough to feel the lines of his body against yours.

There’s a reason you haven’t given in to this right? Ah yes, you currently live together. You owe them your life for giving you somewhere to live and hunting your enemies. You refuse to pay for that with sex. Although the more you resist the less it feels like a form of payment. With his hands on your waist, he nudges you a step forward until you’re pressed between the cold metal of the washing machine and the raw heat of him.

No, this wouldn’t be payment. It would simply be fucking hot sex between two very consenting adults. Still doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.

“Dean,” you whine, shocked by the neediness with which you say his name. You’d intended it to be cautioning but instead, you sound wanton and desperate.

“Y/N.” That’s almost enough to break you. He hardly says your name, electing to call you one of his myriad of nicknames instead. In fact, you try and remember if you’ve ever heard him say it, but his lips make you forget further back than 30 seconds ago. He’s careful not to press them to you yet but you know exactly where his mouth is. From behind your ear, he moves slowly over the length of your neck, stopping on your shoulder at the hem of your shirt like he’s waiting patiently to ghost over the covered skin.  

It’s not fair. He’s spent days catching you when he can. While you’re reading in the library or walking back from your car. Sometimes it’s nothing more than a comment or a teasing hand somewhere on your body and then he’s gone, but this is an assault. Any other time in any other situation and you’re fairly sure you’d already be in bed with him, but the bunker is too delicate an ecosystem to disturb.

You turn in his hands and he only just loosens his hold on you enough to do that. As soon as you’re facing him you catch your mistake. He’s easier to ignore without looking into those eyes of his. Cut emerald that shines just for you as he raises his head back up to height.

“Dean,” you repeat and this time it is as warning as you intended. You’re still unable to push the word ‘no’ past your lips though like it’s too final to will into existence.

The problem with Dean Winchester is that he loves the sound of his own name, or he must do with the way he takes it as a challenge. The hands at your waist lift you up to sit on the edge of the machine you’d been pressed against. He slides himself achingly closer, pushing your knees apart to let him in. You’re a heartbeat away from wrapping your legs around him, not that he can get any closer to you. Annoyingly he knows how to wind you up even if he’s barely touched you.

Your eyes are imploring as you slide both hands over his chest, that in itself is a mistake. He feels perfect under your fingers, “we can’t.”

His grin could only be described as wicked, “says who?”

The last vestige of lucidity pushes through the heat that thrums through your body, “me.”

His mouth is close enough to yours that you don’t have to imagine what his lips feel like, he’s close enough for you to taste his words on your tongue as he whispers, “we’ll see about that.”

You close your eyes in anticipation of giving up only for him to disappear. Nobody holding you up and no thick fingers drumming against your hips. An actual whimper escapes you when you open your eyes. Panting like you’ve run a marathon, clinging to the edges of the metal beneath you for dear life and legs still parted where you’re sure Dean had been.

The speed of his exit makes you doubt, half a mind to write it off as a very coherent dream, were it not for a whistle close by that disappears into the distance with the sound of heavy boots.

* * *

The next day Eileen finds a salt and burn. She’s desperate to get out and work a job and Sam offers to go with her. He says he can track the pack from there and come back if needed. Surprisingly she actually agrees. By the time they drive off into the sunset you’re half expecting them to never come back.

Dean didn’t come to see them go. Worryingly he hasn’t been around for hours and doing a brief lap of his favorite places; bedroom, garage, kitchen, he’s nowhere to be found. You didn’t really see him at breakfast either, the coffee was there but Dean and his robe weren’t.

The only reason you know he’s still here is because his Baby is in the garage tucked away safe and sound. But the bunker feels as empty as it did when they all left you. The only noise in the corridors is your own footsteps. Dean has proven he’s sneaky, but this feels like he’s actually disappeared, and you don’t like it.

You call out to him in the end. Hoping to lure him out with his name like you’ve spurred him on already. It doesn’t work. You text and call him wondering if he’s dumb enough to leave his phone on loud, but you don’t even hear the vibrate of a device let alone a ringtone. The call goes to voicemail and the text remains unanswered.

They’d only been gone an hour and you’d lost Dean already.

There’s only one other way you can think to get him to show himself. Chores.

“Dean. I’m doing laundry. And I um…” You stutter a little bit as you attempt to narrate your activities. Not entirely sure what enticed him in the first place. “I- I’m wearing nothing but my football jersey. I’m washing all my clothes, and this is the only thing I had left to wear.”

It’s difficult to sound sultry and loud at the same time, which is why you failed miserably. Dean doesn’t show his face so you move on.

“Dean! I’m baking a pie and my hands are all sticky. I’m covered in this sugary pecan filling that I guess I’ll just have to lick off my fingers one by one.” You felt pretty confident that one was going to work but there’s not so much as a shuffle of feet. Not even when you moan for good measure and add, “I just love the taste of nuts!”

Some of these were difficult to say with a straight face.

You think you’ve got just the thing to get him as you run to his bedroom. The door swings open to an empty room, as you expect at this point, and you leave it open on its hinges so that your voice will carry as far as the bunker can take it.

“Deano! I’m just making your bed for you but wow, these sheets are soft. Maybe I’ll just lay down on them for a few minutes if that’s ok with you? I’m exhausted with all that work.”

You spread yourself out on his bed as alluringly as possible. One leg crossed over the other and hands behind your head essentially pushing your chest forward. You clamp your eyes shut but peek after a few minutes expecting to see him relent and appear in the doorway. You could worry about getting out of here when you knew he was alright. If you wanted to get out of here.

He still doesn’t show.

You’re starting to genuinely worry. You didn’t want to call Sam because they’d drive back before finishing the job and really you didn’t want them thinking you weren’t even capable of looking after the bunker. Not that the bunker was in danger, Dean was or might be. You hadn’t been here long enough to know every room or hiding spot. What if he was genuinely hurt somewhere, passed out or worse?

You pad into the war room all cute ideas out the window. This time when you call for him your voice wobbles with anxiety but it’s loud enough to echo. “Listen this isn’t funny anymore. Where the fuck are you? If you’re hurt just make any noise you can, and I’ll find you.”

It was impossible really. How silently a sturdy man like Dean could move. Without even disturbing the dust in the air. You close your eyes on a blink and open them to see him standing feet away. He’s barefoot in sweats and a tee, maybe that’s his secret, but looks mostly unharmed, the smirk he’s wearing is apologetic.

“Didn’t mean to scare you doll.”

You put a hand on your hip and stare him down with all of the anger you can find, which isn’t much because mostly you’re relieved as hell. “What did you mean to do?”

He chuckles and scratches the back of his neck, “thought maybe you’d miss me. Then when you started trying to tease me outta hiding I was kind of hoping the next step would be you getting naked. Thinking about you on my bed nearly did me in.”

You shouldn’t reward this kind of behavior. It’s ridiculous, he’s an idiot. You had your reasons not to give in.

Relief was a bitch though that weakened you further than any of his teasing had. And you loathe to admit you did kind of miss him, “I was all laid out waiting for you.”

He doesn’t move. After all the torture he’s waiting for you to reach him this time and your steps are careful.

“You were huh?”

When you’re standing toe to toe it’s your hands that explore him first, palms flat against his chest as you smooth them upwards towards his neck, “after all of those promises you made me, you never came.”

He’s looking down at you with lust blown eyes, curled lips and a little shake of his head, “I must be a very stupid man.”

Just before crash your lips to his you let out a quiet reply, “glad we agree on something.”


End file.
